When Sparks Become Stars
by G.A. AnimeFan4
Summary: But the stars are still there, and his heart beats cold when he sees - already knew - that there is no newly created one among them. [Jean x Marco]


_A/N: All hail Freckled Jesus x Horse Face un-originality. I tried. (I actually kinda like this one.)_

_I do not own Shingeki no Kyojin, just my writing. Enjoy:-)_

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**When Sparks Become Stars**

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It's like sparks. They burn bright, ascend into the sky to become ignited stars, and they always - _always_ - go out, die, fall back to the ground as grey ashes.

And the story is never different, never changes, is just a continuous cycle. They live, they die, they fall. They train, _fight_, become skilled and brave and ready to face the outside world. But like a repeating, whistling tune, one by one, they clash and they struggle and they are still exterminated in the end. Their Wings of Freedom are plucked and they sink from the sky like birds.

Their spark goes out - and they fall.

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"I'm going to fucking kill him!"

He sighs inwardly, shoving the bitter thought of _Before the Titans do?_ from his mind before replying. "Jean, I'm pretty sure the reason why you and Eren bicker so much is because you're so alike."

His roommate whips around to gawk at him, finally moving from his intimidating stance at the window. The young man's jaw is unhinged in disbelief at his comrade's words and when he speaks, his voice is higher-pitched than usual. "How can you _say_ that?"

Marco shrugs, glancing up from his work of removing the 3DMG straps from his frame. "Well...you are both rash, loud, and have a specific goal. I think you both have a lot in common, even if you guys don't see it."

Jean, obviously, does not have a good comeback since he shuts up after that, hunching his shoulders and crossing his arms with an immature huff. He has already stripped himself of his Trainee Squad uniform and instead wears a pair of casual pants and a tan shirt. Marco follows his lead, hanging up the jacket and leather binds in the closet they have to share. Once he is dressed in pale trousers and a button-up top, he goes to lean against the wall by his disagreeable bunk buddy.

"Just be careful who you pick fights with," Marco suggests calmly, lightheartedly, meaningfully. "In all honesty, I don't want to have to treat a sprained wrist or split lip again."

Jean flushes a vibrant shade of red in the face and he glares out at the setting sun, squinting.

They stay there a while, gazing at the spiny trees lining the horizon that is the Walls. Night air soon washes over their skin and the sky is plunged into an inky black. It is lights-out and the entire camp becomes quiet (everyone's awake, they're whispering, won't be truly asleep for another few hours).

Marco closes his eyes a moment, then hoists his leg up and steps onto the open sill, crouching in the window. As he peers around for the guy in charge, he hears Jean asking what he is doing.

"I used to do this a lot back home," the black-haired cadet exhales as he lifts himself on the roof of the building they currently dwell in.

When he sits down on the (hopefully) solid foundation, rubbing sock-covered feet together and laying back upon the splintering wood, he can hear a brash clambering as Jean crawls up and over beside him. It is a wonder they have not been caught already.

"Look." That is all that needs to be said, because he then lifts his arm and points with his index finger.

Jean releases a suppressed _oof_ as he lies down to Marco's left. After that, he trails his eyes along his companion's clothed limb until he is looking at the unending stretch of atmosphere, of vastness, of speckled, twinkling lights among an obsidian canvas. He frowns thoughtfully, nudging Marco's flank with his elbow.

Said boy groans, amused, and murmurs, "I like to look at the stars. And without any lanterns illuminating everything, you can see so much _more_." He smiles. "My mother used to tell me that when someone dies, a new star is created. That all humans were made by God, that we were all once stardust, and when we can no longer live, we'll return to our original state." Marco chuckles softly. "I was young, so I actually believed her. Really thought I'd become a star when I died."

Jean furrows his brow, considering that, thinks of his own mom, thinks of stardust and dying and how much he really wants to be in the Military Police, not the Scout Regiment, not where he will die and find out what _really_ happens after he shuts his lids forever.

"Nowadays, I know they were just stories, maybe ones her own parents told her." Marco shifts his weight to simper at Jean. "But I still like to _pretend_ to believe them. It's kinda nice, comforting, makes dying seem a little less scary." He presses his lips together in a thin line, taking a deep, even breath. "That's why I like to come up here and watch the stars move across the sky. Reminds me of home."

They remain there for a long time, shivering slightly at the cool breeze that picked up only seconds ago. The hair on his arms rise and Jean clears his throat, memorizing the patterns of the scattered constellations. For a brief interval, he isn't the obnoxious moron picking arguments or the stubborn kid trying to reach the highest mark. No, now he is just Jean Kirschtein, Marco Bodt's company here on the exposed side of the ceiling to their dormitory.

"I like stars, too," he mutters gruffly and Marco seems surprised but happy. "They're all over the place. They remind me of your freckles."

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It is the tale that circles throughout history, the one that plays again and again and again. They live, they die, and he falls, and it is a grim reminder of just how predictably morbid this world is.

The sparks float up from the fire, meandering above their mere human anatomies. They burn brightly, ascending, and the anguished cries of friends, of lovers, of brothers and sisters coarse through him, echoing within his eardrums painfully. The flames and coals crackle and spit out random fragments, hollow slivers. It is sickening and the blaze only becomes hotter - adds insult to injury.

He clenches his fist and his entire body quivers, shakes, can't _stop quaking_ and he announces with strained syllables that he will join the Scout Regiment, will give his life to end the threat of Titans.

The sparks go out, they die, and Jean stares blankly at the mass of eroding bones, wondering which are _his_ and which are not, which he should be apologizing to. But a dead man cannot tell and the remains keep their secrets and he cannot beg for forgiveness.

He cranes his neck and lands empty irises on the scene that is their sky, choking with heavy smoke (but the stars are still there, and his heart beats cold when he sees - already knew - that there is no newly created one among them).

The sparks fall as ashes, like birds with lost wings, and hit the ground, forgotten.

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The shops all appear the same around this time of year, nothing interesting, nothing particularly unique. It's boring, normal, the usual, a typical day. Snow falls lazily, dotting the cement sidewalks and the tar roads, painting the city white. Pedestrians make their ways down the streets, shuffling through melting puddles and fresh mounds of frozen precipitation. Cars pass, buses squeal to a halt, store bells jingle as their doors open and close.

Thick boots with worn soles and laces that are too long plant themselves on the concrete, walking nowhere, wandering. He comes to a short stop outside a Starbucks and contemplates buying something; he decides on a _no_, he's got money, but not a crap-ton to waste.

He breathes, the fog gathering where his internal heat escapes, and he covers the lower half of his face with a gloved hand, warming the numbed parts.

It's freezing and he is quite pissed, but since God can't do shit about it, he just accepts his misery and trudges onward. He really doesn't have anywhere to go today, but it is better than doing nothing in his tiny apartment for an entire weekend. So here he is, mumbling incoherent obscenities into his palm as he strolls block after block, around corners, into vaguely alluring outlets and skipping the trashy ones. He purchases a pastry, eats it, rolls his eyes at how _dull_ this is.

Eventually, his muscles cease their movement and the man fixates on his reflection in the glass. Behind that glass are an array of things - things not much different from the other things in the other retails. The minuscule cloud that only comes in winter billows from underneath his nose and he fills his lungs with "fresh", smoggy oxygen.

His mirrored self looks tired (didn't sleep all that well, had strange and vivid dreams, of ashes and of skeletons conveying monotonous anecdotes), with a colorless face and hair that was not wanting to cooperate that morning.

He mumbles a harsh, "_Ugh_..." into the collar of his beige coat.

Like a flawless pond surface, the shop window portrays the individuals around him almost perfectly, and by only being poised in that spot, he can pick out the men from women, the adults from children, the rich from poor, every alteration in character as one identity replaces the next. It is entertaining, really, seeing the diverse population with his back turned to them - every other occasion, he has had his back to a Wall, every ounce of his person intent on every element.

He tilts his head to the side, evokes in a double-take, feels his respiration pause. This happens when one of the many, many, many distinct citizens whisks by.

Jean curves his spine so he can peek to his port side, something of a recollection dawning, and his arms are like lead, his legs steel. His blood is broiling and his chest is compressing while the snow builds up all around him, dusts the fabric of his attire, leaves his fingers chilled, but everything is heating up. What is funny, however, is the lack of remorse, of angry shame, of _sadness_ present - what is there is relief and hesitant _happiness_ and not-so-positive excitement.

He makes a noise, maybe a gasp or a cough or a moaning plea to be acknowledged because he still _is not sure._

The man at the window adjoining starts - barely visibly - and straightens his back from where he bent to get a better view of the bottom shelf. The man with black hair cut short and framing his forehead twists on his heel and they stare at each other for a long, silent juncture. The man with freckles, with _stars_ on his cheeks gapes, then rights himself, and grins wide.

Jean nearly chokes on the name, yet it's so sweet to say, to hear.

"Marco...?"

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It's like sparks. They burn bright, ascend into the sky to become ignited stars, and they always - _always_ - go out, die, fall back to the ground as grey ashes. They live, they die, they fall. Like birds.

But every once in a while, an ash will drift back into the flames that lick the freckled sky.

It rekindles and is given a second chance.

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_~Finish~_


End file.
